


The Missing Ring

by NegativEvitageN



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Fluff, M/M, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:04:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NegativEvitageN/pseuds/NegativEvitageN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events at the moor, Sherlock confronts Lestrade about that tan line on his ring finger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For reference, this is the tan line of the missing ring that I'm talking about:  
> 

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that missing ring,” Sherlock says, picking up the detective inspector’s hand and running his thumb over the tan line, “I didn’t want to bring it up in front of John, but I did notice it.”

“Yeah, I suppose I have you to thank for that,” Lestrade replies, yanking his hand away and taking a bigger gulp of his scotch. Sherlock turns away, leans back against the bar, studies the room.

“You know that’s not true. I wasn’t the one that made your wife cheat. I just brought it to your attention.”

Lestrade stares down at his drink, swirls the ice in his glass, listens to the bustle of the bar around him. He wouldn’t admit it, but Sherlock was right. He could’ve ignored it all he wanted, but that wasn’t going to change the fact that it was there going on behind his back. He and his wife, they weren’t meant for each other anyway. They’d grown apart so much that they were two completely different people, and it was no one’s fault really, but they just didn’t belong together anymore. He didn’t blame her for finding someone else, though he was miffed about the way she went about it.

“Has the divorce gone through yet?” Sherlock asks, watching the other people in the bar, probably deducing their whole life stories with just one look. Lestrade finishes his glass and signals the bartender for another.

“Not yet. There’s still a lot of negotiating to be done. Our lawyers are talking it out,” Lestrade says almost regretfully, subconsciously feeling his discarded wedding ring in his pocket. True, he wasn’t wearing it anymore, but he still couldn’t bring himself to just chuck it completely.

“What prompted you to take the ring off?” Sherlock asks, noticing Lestrade’s subconscious action. He turns back around on his barstool, resting his forearms on the bar, looking down with disgust at the wet patches from where someone’s diminished motor skills sloshed their alcohol.

“What do you mean? I’m getting divorced,” Lestrade answers as if it’s self-explanatory.

“No, I mean. You took the ring off halfway during your last vacation, giving you enough time in the sun to leave an obvious line from your new tan. What exactly made you take it off?” Sherlock watches him closely, either genuinely concerned or just interested from a scientific stand point. Lestrade could never tell with him.

“Oh,” Lestrade huffs out a laugh, “Well, I was on vacation and I came across a wedding on the beach and I just…” Lestrade trails off, running a finger around the edge of his glass.

“You took off work to deal with your divorce only to be reminded of your divorce,” Sherlock smiles sarcastically at the irony of it.

“No, it was…” Lestrade watches the television on the wall as if it can give him the right words, “Therapeutic.” He looks down and traces the tan line on his finger with a look almost of nostalgia.

“Why are you back at work then?” Sherlock questions, glancing at the television. On screen is a football game of two teams he doesn’t know, nor care to know, and he can’t even tell who’s winning.

Lestrade lets out a genuine laugh and takes another sip of his whiskey. 

“I told you, I’m still on vacation,” he says with a wink and a playful smile.

Sherlock sports a straight mouth expression, obviously not amused.

“I know you were here because of me, don’t lie.”

“Alright well, if truth be told, I got tired of ‘vacation’” he air quotes and makes a face at the word, “It was boring and it gave me nothing to do and it was only making me feel lonelier and more depressed, so when I saw on John’s blog that you had a new case… Well, I just had to come crash it,” Lestrade grins at him, obviously proud of himself for reversing the roles and interrupting one of Sherlock’s cases for a change.

“And it had nothing to do with my brother?” Sherlock asks him suspiciously, still not fully buying his story.

Lestrade laughs a bit harshly, finishes off his glass, asks for another. The bartender gives him a wary look as he refills it, probably going to cut him off soon. 

He sighs deeply through bared teeth, “Your brother. I’m getting real sick and tired of him trying to tell me what to do. You’re lucky I actually care about you or I wouldn’t put up with it,” he motions to Sherlock with his glass, accidentally sloshing a bit of the liquid over the edge. Motor skills slightly impaired, eyes just a bit glossed over, flushed cheeks, a little sweat on his brow. He’s definitely inebriated, though with surprisingly clear articulation. Must’ve had practice.

“What do you mean you care for me?” Sherlock huffs doubtfully, frowning at the drink in Lestrade’s hand.

“Sweetheart, I could treat you like every other DI likes to treat you, if I wanted. Did you ever once think of why I don’t?”

Sherlock mouths the word ‘sweetheart’, perplexed, maybe slightly disgusted. Was that sarcastic or an actual endearment? Probably sarcastic… But still, how bizarre of him to use it.

“Because you need me,” Sherlock counters.

“I let you believe so, yes. But truth is, all these cases I bring you in on, I could easily solve them myself, albeit not as quickly as you, but still. I don’t bring you in for my benefit. I do it for yours.”

Sherlock shifts in his seat to look more directly at the inspector, watches him with a speculative frown. This wasn’t a lie or an embarrassed cover-up story to make himself feel better. This was the truth of a drunken man who no longer cared to hide his secrets.

“What do you mean?” he ventures quizzically, trying to understand what the detective was saying.

“I mean I like you, stupid,” Lestrade scowls at him, “And I don’t like it when you’re bored. You get self-destructive and I don’t want that for you. So I keep distracting you with cases.”

Lestrade gulps the rest of his scotch, slams the glass down on the bar with a loud clink, motions the bartender over.

“Greg, I think you’ve had enough,” Sherlock warns nervously, placing a hand on his forearm. He was drinking an awful lot in a short amount of time and was starting to sway slightly on his stool.

“Oh it’s ‘Greg’ now that you actually know my first name?” Lestrade replies petulantly, throwing Sherlock’s hand off. “More whiskey please.”

“I’m afraid your friend is right. Best slow down for a little while,” the bartender replies, sliding Lestrade’s glass away from him.

“Are you kidding?” Lestrade gives up with a growl, slapping his money down on the bar and standing a bit too quickly. Sherlock wraps an arm around his shoulder to steady him when he starts to lean a bit too far to one side and Lestrade shrugs him off, stalking away, hands stuffed in pockets, shoulders raised defensively. 

Outside, in the cool air, Lestrade just starts walking, not headed towards the hotel, not headed towards his car, not headed anywhere really. Sherlock pays the rest of the tab since Lestrade hadn’t put down enough money and quickly catches up with him.

“Go away, Sherlock,” Lestrade breathes out a huff of steam.

“Don’t be angry. Listen, I’ll buy you as many pints as you want tomorrow,” Sherlock tries, blowing a puff of warm air over his fingers.

“It’s not about…” Lestrade shakes his head, pulls out his gloves and stuffs his fingers into them, “I’m not angry. I just want to be alone.”

“I don’t think I should leave you, Greg,” Sherlock responds, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Greg stops midstride and turns to face him directly, stopping Sherlock with a rough hand on his chest.

“You never once bothered to find out that name for five years. You can’t just arbitrarily use it now,” Lestrade practically snarls at him.

“You’re getting upset that I’m using your name?” Sherlock asks, slightly bewildered.

“No, I’m getting upset that-! I- I mean. Shut up! What if I am?” Lestrade yells back in frustration. _Oh, god, he’s not going to make a scene, is he?_ Sherlock glances around nervously, but luckily they’re alone.

Lestrade, hand still of Sherlock’s chest, grabs his coat and pulls him close for an intimidating effect, and Sherlock cringes from the intensity of alcohol on his breath.

“To you, I’m DI Lestrade, understand?” Lestrade growls, his breath uncomfortably sticky against Sherlock’s skin. Well he certainly didn’t seem like a DI right now.

Sherlock frowns at him, in confusion, in defiance, in anger at the unfairness of it all. 

“Why does John get to call you Greg and I can’t?”

“Because John actually bothered to find out. He actually wanted to talk to me.”

“What do you think I’m doing right now?” Sherlock grabs the hand on his chest and pushes Lestrade away, because, damn it, wasn’t he trying?? Wasn’t this enough? What else did he have to do?

“One night of drinks as acquaintances is nothing. John took the time to be a friend, not something you would ever do.” Lestrade turns and starts walking again, and _Damn it! Why was he acting this way??_

“You know me, Greg! This is the best it gets. What more do you want from me?” Sherlock protests, catching up with him and walking side by side. When Lestrade doesn’t respond, he tries again.

“I do too take time to try to be friends,” he says, wondering if grabbing the DI’s hand would be a bit too much, “I keep picking you for cases.”

“You keep picking me?” Lestrade laughs incredulously, suddenly diverting direction so that Sherlock, caught off guard, has to twirl on his toes and jog to catch back up, “ _I’m_ the one that consults _you_ on cases, remember? You don’t pick me. I’m just the only one who will tolerate you.”

Sherlock has no idea where they are going. They’ve already gotten quite a bit away from the buildings and are now just walking down a random street, surrounded by trees, the moon their only source of light now.

“Actually, I could probably get Dimmock to do anything I wanted, so it isn’t like you’re the only one that I could choose from,” Sherlock objects defensively, then adds softly, “I just prefer you.”

“Oh, you ‘prefer’ me. How very flattering,” Lestrade spits out sardonically, staring angrily at the asphalt in front of him.

“I’m confused!” Sherlock yells, grabbing Lestrade’s elbow and forcing him to a stop so that he can look at him directly. Lestrade avoids eye contact.

“I thought we were close! You said you liked me, didn’t you?”

In fact, aside from John, Lestrade was the second closest person in Sherlock’s life, and that was really only because John and him were flatmates and you tend to get pretty close pretty quickly that way. For the five years before John, there wasn’t really anyone else besides Lestrade (and Mycroft on the sidelines, but he didn’t exactly have a choice with that one).

“Sweetheart, that’s completely different,” Lestrade says with an angry smile.

“And why do you keep calling me Sweetheart?!” Sherlock yells exasperated.

He absolutely hated not understanding things, and this was one thing that he definitely couldn’t understand.

“You know, for a man who sees everything, you can be spectacularly blind sometimes,” he replies without actually answering his question, turning back the way they had come.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock calls after him, frustrated at everyone constantly pointing out how ‘ignorant’ he was. When Lestrade doesn’t respond or look like he’s going to stop, Sherlock jogs to catch back up with him.

“Why are you angry?” he asks, but Lestrade won’t look at him.

“Greg!” he grabs the DI’s hand and in one quick movement, Lestrade turns on him, grabs the back of his neck, and presses a rough kiss to his lips.

“Is that a big enough of a hint for you, stupid?” Lestrade says.


	2. Chapter 2

“Is that a big enough of a hint for you, stupid?” Lestrade says, taking a step back.

Sherlock stares at him in shock, unable to speak. And in the moment that follows, realization hits Lestrade of what he's just done.

His cheeks flare a brighter shade of red than before.

"Oops."

That's all he says. Soft. Bewildered.

He falters, mouth open and moving as if he wants to say something more but can't. Then he plops his mouth shut, looks away, back again, seems to wait for something.

And then, without an answer, he blinks once, and turns and walks away hastily, drunkenly muttering something under his breath.

And Sherlock lets him, caught where he is as if frozen in time. His brain seems to stop and he can’t fully comprehend what just happened. The movements were so quick, and Lestrade had been acting so angry, at first Sherlock thought he was going to hit him. But instead…

A lingering taste of alcohol hovers on his lips and he licks it tentatively, hoping it can give him an answer. They’re tingling with an unfamiliar sensation and he runs his fingers over them, and, oh my god, Lestrade had just kissed him.

And Sherlock can’t help but crack a smile. Small. Hidden beneath fingertips.

He begins walking back, and he probably wouldn't even deny the small bounce in his step. If he could just catch up to Lestrade, then…

_Was that a big enough of a hint?_ God, how did he not see this earlier? Shouldn’t it have been obvious?

But then again...

He stops again, giving even more distance between him and Lestrade.

Suddenly his brain kicks back into high gear and begins whirling as it searches for an answer.

Ok, it was true. Lestrade had just kissed him. But… why?

And how long had he been ‘hinting’ at something like this? Sherlock wasn't _that_ oblivious. Many people had hit on him before and he could pick up on it easily. But there was never anything like that with Lestrade.

Five years ago when they first met there was certainly no indication of any ‘hinting’ behavior. In fact, in the beginning, their association was strained and tense at best and the DI barely even wanted him around, certainly wasn’t happy about him barging in and solving his cases. He had had a bad reputation around the Yard, and Lestrade knew it. Tried to avoid him like the plague.

Eventually, they’d become a bit more forbearing of each other when they realized they could help each other out, but that was nothing more than tolerance or desperation when they needed something, and he still had the feeling that the DI didn’t particularly want him around. 

It eventually got to the point that Lestrade would call him in on a case without him even needing to interrupt, though admittedly that took a long time and he only ever called when there were multiple bodies and no leads. Still, he supposes the way Lestrade treated him was a bit more humane than other DIs who asked for his help, but that entails nothing more than a pleasant acquaintance, not even a friendship and certainly nothing more.

They never talked if there wasn’t a case involved. They never invited each other to drinks or a meal or anything that people normally do for social interactions. True, Lestrade had come to their Christmas party, but to Sherlock that was still more of a professional courtesy, and he had come only because John asked him to, not because of Sherlock. All their interactions had been mostly professional. Up until now, the only possible ‘hinting’ he can detect from the man is from tonight after Lestrade was drunk and after Sherlock brought up the divorce.

He shakes his head and starts walking slowly back to the hotel, raising his shoulders against the cold wind. The leaves on the trees shake noisily at him.

His mind just had to get in the way of everything didn’t it? He just _had_ to stop and think about it, didn’t he?

So that only left one possible explanation: Lestrade, still reeling from his divorce, gets drunk and expects something (or, rather, someone) to distract him, and had turned to Sherlock simply because he was there and available. Now that he understands it, Sherlock's smile is nowhere to be seen. 

He needs an explanation. He needs to hear it from Lestrade himself. Lestrade wasn’t really the kind of person to purposefully use someone else to get over a relationship. Maybe he was just… Ugh.

Sherlock lets out an audible sigh, kicking a rock into a puddle of light from a nearby street lamp. The buildings had returned around him and soon he’d be back at the hotel.

Sometimes he really wishes he understood feelings better. But feelings often don't follow logic and some behaviors can be indicative of several different things.

He needed time to think. He needed time to process. He needed time to understand this with a clear, unaffected head. At first he had been thrilled. Now he was unsure. And emotions were clouding his judgment. All he needed was a good night’s sleep and to look at the situation objectively in the morning.

* * * *

The next day, Lestrade is sitting by the pool after lunch, lounging in the sun to the sounds of yells and splashes. Sherlock approaches him with a drink in hand, some sort of peace offering to lessen the blow while he confronted the inspector on his behavior, no doubt. Lestrade is already dreading it before Sherlock even takes a seat on the lounger next to his and sets down the drink on the small table between them.

He doesn’t remember a lot from last night, but what he does remember isn’t exactly pleasant. He had acted like a total ass, had been angry for no reason and unfairly took it out on Sherlock. A part of him wishes it just didn’t happen so he didn’t have to deal with it now, but the other part of him knows it did happen and he was going to have to apologize.

“Lestrade, listen—” Sherlock starts.

“I was drunk,” he interrupts before he can say anything. “And I know I shouldn’t have been drinking that much in such a short amount of time, so thanks for stopping me. I’m sorry about getting so angry about you using my name. It was sort of my stupid drunken way of saying that I wished we spent more time together, and I was mad that we didn’t. But I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I was angry for no reason and my anger made me say some stupid things. Can we just kinda forget what happened last night?”

Lestrade doesn’t meet his gaze, his cheeks slightly warming with barely noticeable embarrassment, easily written off as heat from the too-bright sun (or maybe it just seemed that way from the aftereffects of the hangover). He visibly frowns at the water of the pool through the brown lenses of his sunglasses, wanting possibly even less than Sherlock to talk about this. He unfortunately always turned into such an idiot when he drank too much...

Sherlock sits for a moment and thinks, seems to backtrack on what he originally wanted to say. It appears neither of them are particularly good at talking about such things. Honestly, it's kind of no wonder they never really talk about anything serious or personal.

Lestrade gives him a moment to gather his thoughts and looks around. Despite the slightly chilly air, the pool is half-crowded. There are about twelve other people either in the water or sitting along the edge. Most of them, though, are on the other side of the pool, luckily giving the two men enough relative peace to talk.

"So does that mean I can use your first name now?" Sherlock wonders, eyeing him curiously.

Lestrade looks back at him, "Yeah, I suppose," he cracks a smile, "But I guess it would just sound weird coming from you now after five years of nothing but ‘Lestrade’."

Sherlock reaches to the table and steals the drink he had brought him, taking a sip. "Weirder than Sweetheart?"

The memory flashes through Lestrade's mind and he laughs out loud. Oh gosh he'd actually called him that didn't he?

"Well how about we save those for special circumstances," Lestrade chuckles.

Sherlock doesn't laugh with him. Doesn't even smile. Lestrade clears his throat and lets his expression fall. Ok, so we're not taking this lightly.

Lestrade rubs at the tan line on his finger for a moment while Sherlock takes another sip and then sets the drink down. He realizes what he's doing, and then stops, not wanting to have to talk about that again.

"For the time being, I'll try to refrain from drinking too much again, alright? Don't want to say or do anything else I don't mean to," Lestrade attempts, taking a sip from the drink. He doesn't even mind that Sherlock had drunk from it first.

“Alcohol doesn’t make you do what you don’t want to do. It just takes away your inhibitions and lets you do what you _do_ want to do.” Sherlock kind of crinkles his brow at his own awkward phrasing and narrows his eyes at a couple sitting under umbrellas on the other side of the pool, “Oh, you know what I mean.”

“There’s a reason inhibitions are there in the first place,” Lestrade responds without meeting his gaze. He watches as a kid, maybe mid-twenties, steps up to the end of the diving board, jumps once, and then flips off into the water. The resounding vibrations of the board bounce off the surface and fill the air along with the encouraging, celebratory yells of the his friends.

“So you’re saying you didn’t want to kiss me?” Sherlock pressures, boring scrutinizing eyes directly into him.

He sits, dumbfounded by the question, caught off guard. “Oh my god, I did, didn’t I?” He sets down the drink and runs a hand through his hair, sounding and looking a bit as if he just remembered that fact for the first time.

“Yes. You did. Quickly and unexpectedly. You kind of ambushed me.”

Lestrade groans and hides his face in both of his hands, pushing up his shades to rub his eyes, “I’m sorry. I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

“What do you mean?”

"Can we forget about it? I didn't mean to," Lestrade attempts.

"What do you mean, though? Ruined what?"

Instead of responding, Lestrade simply sighs deeply, readjust his sunglasses, and pulls his knees up to dangle his arms off loosely as he stares at the spontaneous swimming competition that was happening with twenties-something group.

He vaguely wonders where John could be and if it was possible for him to come and interrupt this unwanted conversation. Any sort of distraction at all would be a blessing at this point.

The group erupts in shouts as a winner is announced, and Lestrade watches with slight nostalgia, remembering what it was like at that age. He runs a hand through his greying hair and suddenly feels too old. With a frown, he leans back down on the lounger in defeat, letting the sun beat down on his face.

A moment later, and he hears, “Are you trying to use me as a rebound?”

“What?” Lestrade falters and rises to his elbows, taken aback by the sudden question. He couldn’t possibly actually believe that, could he?

“You’re newly divorced. You’re trying to replace the sudden loss,” Sherlock postulates.

“Newly divorced,” he scoffs and lies back down, “We might as well have been divorced for years now, and you know that. This isn’t me just reeling from some bad break-up,” he pauses and thinks about his words before he finally decides to admit softly (guess there was no point putting it off any longer), “I’ve had feelings for you for quite a while, way before there was any real trouble in my marriage, way before a break-up was even imminent. I never brought it up before because, well, for the obvious reason of morality. I was married. Couldn’t do anything. But it’s not just something new that magically appeared as soon as I had marriage troubles. I’m not trying to replace my wife with you or anything like that...”

He glances at Sherlock whose face is crinkled with concentration, deeply thinking about something, lost in vast expanse that was his mind. 

He doesn’t even look at Lestrade when he asks, “How long?”

“How long have I had these feelings, you mean?” he pauses and thinks, “I honestly don’t know. I don’t really know exactly when it happened. It just kind of... did. You know? Over time.”

When Sherlock remains silent, Lestrade feels a sort of pressure in his chest and just feels this intense need to clarify, so he sits up and keeps talking, “I didn’t mean to just jump you with this either. This attraction just started out of nowhere, and slowly—very, very slowly—started to grow over the years, barely even noticeable to me. I didn’t even realize it until after the very frightening realization that you could have been hurt, or even killed, that day at the pool with Moriarty… That’s when I understood that I didn’t ever want to lose you. I wanted you to always be in my life…”

Sherlock still remains silent as he watches the other people at the pool, still lost in thought, and Lestrade is again hit with that overwhelming sensation to just blabber on, words falling out of his mouth before he has time to think about what he’s saying.

“I know this seems really sudden, and I really wish I hadn’t just accidentally let it out last night. I kind of wanted to make sure that these feelings were real before I did anything, and, as you pointed out, I didn't want you to think that you were any sort of 'rebound'. Truthfully, I hadn’t really thought all that much about exactly what my plan of action would be, but I would’ve come up with something…”

Sherlock doesn’t even move, doesn’t react, doesn’t give any indication that he’s even listening. Lestrade rubs his hands together, subconsciously rubs at the tan line on his ring finger as if the ring was still there, waits for some kind of reaction, and then speaks up again.

“And if you don’t reciprocate any of said feelings and would rather never talk about any of this again, I would completely understand,” he says quickly.

He swallows, and waits, and fidgets, and readjusts his sunglasses, and watches the other people, and then, “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“I’m processing,” Sherlock replies simply.

“Alright…” Lestrade takes a steadying breath and waits. He watches as a pair of boys practically wrestle each other in the water, trying to see who can dunk whose head beneath the surface first.

The sun beats down on his back relentlessly and he fights the urge to suddenly shift positions, realizing that he’s fidgeting just a bit too much. He clasps his hands tightly together to stop the nervous ticks.

“Alright,” Sherlock says suddenly with an air of finality as he comes to a conclusion and stands abruptly. Without another word, he swiftly walks away.

“Alright what?” Lestrade calls after him, but Sherlock keeps walking and simply leaves him there without an answer.

Lestrade frowns after him in confusion, but knows better than to follow him and pressure him into an explanation. He’d explain soon enough with some time… hopefully. 

With a huff of defeat, he flops back on the lounger to soak in the sun just a bit longer, wishing more than anything that all of this had happened differently.

* * * *

Vacation was getting boring again, even with John and Sherlock there. Boring and uncomfortable. Lestrade was ready to go home.

They had all eaten dinner together, which just turned out to be an awkward experience, Lestrade and Sherlock avoiding each other’s eyes and not really talking to each other, other than the occasional 'Can you pass the bread?', an air of tension falling over the two of them and mixing together with John’s obvious confusion as to what had happened, everyone’s unwillingness to bring it up, and then Lestrade’s hasty retreat even though he was only half-done eating.

And now, back in the privacy of his own room, Lestrade is packing his suitcase back up, prepared to leave the next morning. At this point, he’s 100% positive that he has ruined everything between him and Sherlock and nothing will ever be the same. It’s a horrible thought, but it seems to be unfortunately true.

He’s in the middle of stuffing another pile of shirts into the case when he jumps at a knock at the door.

A low feeling of dread settles over him as he walks over and prepares to meet Sherlock or John or someone else pointing out the mistake he had made, but when he does, he’s met only with surprise as it reveals an employee holding a covered tray.

“Yes?”

“Room service. Someone bought this for you,” the employee says with a polite smile as he presents the tray.

“Oh… Thanks,” Lestrade says, brow furrowed in confusion as he takes it and closes the door.

He brings it in and sets it down on the table, snatching off the little note attached to the side.

> _**“I’m sorry for the dinner. You were still hungry, so I bought you some more.  
>  Please don’t leave yet. I’m still thinking.”  
> **_

Lestrade takes off the lid of the tray to reveal a plate of freshly made fettuccine alfredo under a puff of steam. Not what he had gotten at dinner, but what he had been craving. And honestly it was slightly eerie how Sherlock knew all of this, what he had wanted, the fact that he was thinking about leaving. How could he have possibly known?

He sits down and rereads the note and considers this.

So Sherlock is asking him to give him more time to think, and had given a rather expensive plate of food as bribery. The fact that he was still thinking about this had Lestrade’s stomach turning with a funny feeling. Perhaps he hadn’t actually ruined everything like he’d thought…

Maybe one more day wouldn’t hurt.

* * * *

“We’re going on a hike in the woods. Wanna come?” John asks, trying to avoid the shirtlessness of the inspector by keeping his eyes above the neck-line. He’d obviously just woken up and still had a disheveled look with his ruffled hair and drooping eyes, certainly didn't appear to be the same man John knew so well. He could find it almost endearing if it weren’t for the fact that he looked thoroughly distraught at being disturbed from his sleep.

“What? Now?” Lestrade responds through a yawn, rubbing his eyes and darting a glance back over his shoulder at the clock on the nightstand. He leans back against the wall and lets the door swing open, tired of holding it, then catches it with his foot as it swings back.

John feels only slightly ashamed for darting a glance at the detective’s body while he looked away. He couldn’t help it. It was just so strange to see him like this.

And honestly, for a man his age, it wasn’t too bad.

“We want to go before the sun gets too high,” John explains, quickly darting his eyes back up as Lestrade turns his head back, “We’ll give you time to get ready. How about an hour or so?”

"You're going out in the woods after what we went through?" Lestrade smiles with a single raised eyebrow, looping his thumbs in the waistband of his pajamas and playing with the door with his foot. 

"Well obviously they've swept the place and have gotten rid of all the triggers, so we aren't at risk of being drugged again. We just want to go out walking. As you said, get London out our lungs." 

“Yeah alright. I’ll meet you in the café in an hour then, yeah?” Lestrade responds.

“Alright good. We’ll see you then,” John says with relief and a final wave goodbye, then leaves to go tell Sherlock the news.

When he’s gone, Lestrade lets the door fall shut and walks back over to his bed, definitely considering just flopping back down and forgetting about the hike. He might or might not have spent the majority of the night with a bout of insomnia and hadn’t slept all too long, but no one could prove that.

Last time he checked, the clock on the nightstand had read 4:32am. For a man used to waking up early in the morning, he never stayed up that late, and had almost believed he wasn’t going to get any sleep at all. But he did. And then, of course, it had to be on possibly the only day of his vacation that someone was going to wake him up early. He’d somehow found sleep just in time for John to knock on his door at 8:06am.

He’d have to make up for the lost sleep later, because now that he was awake, it didn’t feel like he could go back to sleep even if he wanted to. In fact, getting out into nature certainly felt like a good idea.

So he pulls the suitcase out from beneath his bed and plops it onto the mattress, pulling out the recently repacked clothes and spreading them on the sheets, looking for something hike-worthy.

* * * *

“Inspector,” Sherlock greets, looking ever so much like a professional hiker. John, at his side, looks just as well. Lestrade internally groans as he compares his own insufficient outfit. They'd obviously come more prepared than him.

“Sherlock. John.” Lestrade greets in turn, quickly stuffing the remainder of his breakfast into his mouth.

“You don’t have a pack?” John asks, looking around the table at Lestrade’s feet.

“No. Do I need one?” he asks through the mouthful of food. John stifles a smile at his overstuffed, puffed cheeks. Sherlock makes a face.

“Nah, we have everything we need,” John responds, gesturing to his own pack with a shrug.

“John was practically neurotic with making sure we had a sufficient amount of water and food and extra clothes and different shoes, ‘just in case’,” Sherlock explains, airquoting the last words sarcastically before crossing his arms in obvious annoyance.

“And if anything goes wrong, you’re going to be thanking me,” John counters defensively. 

“I highly doubt that. Nothing is going to go wrong and all that effort was not worth it,” Sherlock replies, dropping his pack roughly onto the ground as he takes a seat and props his feet on the table. 

“Oh enough,” John says, shoving his feet off with a pointed glare as he removes his own pack. Sherlock glowers back, crossing his arms petulantly and propping his feet on the chair next to him instead before John has a chance to sit down. John huffs in frustration and is about to say something more when they're interrupted by the waitress bringing the bill by. 

Lestrade, hiding an amused grin, begins searching through his pockets for his wallet.

“Oh, I’ll take care of that,” Sherlock surprises everyone by saying, picking up the bill. Lestrade can't help his mouth falling open in surprise. But of course it doesn't last long as Sherlock simply lounges back and holds it in the air. “John?” he presents the bill with a smirk, waving it expectantly, and John glares back, eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Fine, but I’m paying with your card.”

Sherlock shrugs, “Alright.”

With a glower, John begrudgingly snatches the bill from his hands and begins trudging towards the counter.

Now that they are alone, Lestrade feels a sudden weight on his shoulders, some sort of tension between them, and he wonders what he should say.

“Listen,” Sherlock interrupts his thoughts, thankfully taking the initiative so he doesn’t have to, “The hike was John’s idea. Said the dinner was… weird. And he doesn’t want you to feel unwelcomed. He thinks that I’m better when you’re around and wants us all to get along, or whatever,” he flippantly waves a hand at the idea.

“Oh, gosh, yeah, why would he ever want that?” Lestrade responds sarcastically, mimicking the gesture and waving his hand in a similar manner. 

Sherlock sports a smile-like smirk and Lestrade takes it as a good sign. 

“You know if it was up to me, I wouldn't be here right now,” Sherlock leans his head back and frowns at the sky, “Who in their right mind thinks 'Hey, let's wake up at an ungodly hour to do nothing more than walk around.'? It's a ridiculous notion.” 

Lestrade watches him with a raised eyebrow, “You're just lazy.”

“I am not!” Sherlock feigns offense, “I'm just saying, we could go on a hike at any time. Why did it have to be now? This is supposed to be vacation isn't it? We're supposed to be doing fun stuff. Walking isn't fun. It's boring. And I hate not sleeping when I actually _do_ want to sleep,” Sherlock replies dramatically, plopping his head down on his arms on the table and groaning. 

“So you didn't sleep well either, eh?” Lestrade props an elbow on the table and rest his chin in his hand, watching John inside the cafe tap the counter impatiently as the waitress runs his card.

“What do you mean? You didn't sleep?” Sherlock raises his head suddenly with--what was that?--actual concern on his face? Lestrade feels slightly unnerved by it. It was rare to see Sherlock ever openly show such emotion. 

“Well keep your shirt on,” Lestrade responds, “I got four hours. That's plenty. I have worse than that all the time.”

“Only when you're stressed out about something,” Sherlock points out, and Lestrade tries not to think how he knows that. 

He rolls his eyes. "I'm on vacation. I'm not stressed out about anything," he says, subconsciously messing with his silverware as he pointedly avoids Sherlock gaze by watching John, "I was just expecting to sleep in until way later, so I stayed up late." 

"Hm," Sherlock hums with a frown, obviously not buying it. 

Lestrade glances at him with a shrug, stifling a yawn before looking back at John. Before he even registers what's happening, Sherlock's lips are on his. Only for a second and then gone again, so quick that Lestrade almost misses it. 

He looks at Sherlock who returns to his nonchalant position, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up. 

"Did you- Did you just kiss me??" Lestrade asks in absolute bewilderment. Why-? What-? How-? What?! There wasn't even a warning.

Sherlock looks back at him, feigning confusion, "What? No. Of course not. I have no idea what you're talking about." 

“Sherlock—” but that’s all he can get out before John walks up and interrupts them.

“It’s like the first time she’s ever seen a credit card machine. Had to get the manager over to help. That was ridiculous,” he grumbles as he picks up his pack, “Are we ready to go?”

“I am,” Sherlock responds, hopping up and putting his pack back on. He gives a pointed glance his way, "Lestrade?" 

Lestrade blinks in confusion for one more second, still trying to register why Sherlock had just—did he just… kiss him?—before gathering his senses about him and acting normal, “Yep. Let's go.”

Luckily John doesn’t pick up on it.

In fact, by the time they get to the trail, things seem to be exactly as they always were. Actually, something about it seemed even more casual than usual, slightly more relaxed.

The air is nice and crisp, the sun isn’t too bright and the weather looks like it will hold up.

“Alright this is the spot!” John announces, pointing to an area near the river as he reads off the screen of his mobile. “That’s where the body of Shannon Doyle was found washed up after two days of being in the river. Her corpse was stripped of its skin and she was missing her right big toe.”

“Ooh,” Sherlock and Lestrade say simultaneously, though admittedly with opposite inflections: one excited, one disturbed.

“A couple of weeks later, they arrested a local school teacher, Michael Greenway, when they found his DNA still inside her. Apparently he was going to use her skin as a rug, similar to those bear-skin rugs you see.”

“Wow. Grotesque,” Sherlock praises excitedly, “Are there pictures?”

“Yep,” John hands the phone over and Sherlock holds it up and tilts it and scrolls and frowns and hands it back.

“It doesn’t show anything,” he pouts.

“Well of course not. The press generally doesn’t get too graphic. Lowers viewership,” Lestrade explains.

“Still. It could have had something.”

He watches the water of the river carefully for a few more beats before piping up, “Could’ve been more clever, though points for interesting grotesqueness. I give it a 6. Alright what’s next?” and looks at John who’s searching through his phone.

John points them in the next direction and they continue their trek.

You know, normal people would go bird watching or look for plants or just appreciate nature on a hike. But do they? Of course not. They go looking for old crime scenes instead and rate the interesting level of the crime.

Well, it was true (at least in Lestrade’s experience): bodies dumped in the woods tended to be stranger or more creative than those in the city. But still. It almost disturbs him how interesting he’s finding this.

Almost.

The next scene they visit is just a standard body dump, husband shot by the wife and dropped in the river, nothing interesting. It gets a 2 and they move on quickly.

As they’re walking, John stumbles on a rock in front of him, and Lestrade chuckles. John shoots back a defensive glare just in time to see Lestrade stumble on that same rock, despite having seen it coming. Sherlock bursts out laughing and John turns back around with a triumphant smile. Lestrade grumbles something under his breath and definitely does not pout.

When they come across a small stream, instead of going over the bridge there, Sherlock bounds down to the water. He sees a “rare” tadpole and tries to catch it. John sees what he’s doing and tries to catch him. Lestrade watches from the bridge with an amused grin.

When they finally reach the next spot, John stamps the ground beneath his feet and explains. “Rebecca Hall. Buried alive back in 2003. Her body wasn’t found until 2012 when the ground caved in through her makeshift coffin under a group of campers.”

“Hmm…” Sherlock inspects the dirt quizzically.

“Buried alive,” Lestrade grimaces and shakes his head. “Did they ever find who did it?” he asks, watching as Sherlock takes a sample of the dirt and puts it in his pocket. What for, Lestrade can only guess.

“No. They were never able to find enough evidence to convict,” John replies, scrolling through the text. Sherlock scoffs but doesn’t make any other remark.

When he’s finished looking around, he stands and turns to them with a slight dramatic flair, “I think we should take a break.”

“Oh, good,” Lestrade sighs, plopping down on a nearby rock. He didn’t need to be asked twice.

Sherlock and John join him, taking off their packs and setting them down on the ground in front of them. Sherlock pulls out a water bottle, swiftly unscrews the lid, and takes a couple of gulps. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then offers the bottle to Lestrade.

“Want some?”

“Sure,” he takes the bottle gratefully and tilts it back, pointedly ignoring the knowing smile John was directing at them.

“You know,” Sherlock muses, “I think I could probably identify the killer if I took this case.” He turns to Lestrade hopefully, “Can you give me access?”

“Probably not,” Lestrade frowns sympathetically.

Sherlock, looking personally affronted, asks “Why not?”

“Not my jurisdiction,” Lestrade shrugs. At Sherlock’s pout, he quickly adds, “I could make some calls and see if I can put in a good word with the local police for you to consult, though.”

In return, Sherlock smiles brightly at him, “Thanks.”

And Lestrade can’t help but smile back.

Beside them, John groans and rolls his eyes and Lestrade nudges him in the side.

There aren’t any more crime scenes that John can find, so after the break, they simply walk along the trail and look for something interesting.

Sherlock finds a couple of plants that, and I quote, ‘would be easy to make into a lethal toxin.’ Lestrade worries about it and purposefully avoids those plants. John refuses to let Sherlock take any back, despite his insistence that he’ll ‘use them responsibly.’ And Sherlock ends up sneaking some in his pocket anyways.

At one point, a frog lands on John’s shoulder. Sherlock catches it and holds it in his hands. He tells John that he wants to keep it and calls it Twitch. John says no and makes him release it. While he’s surreptitiously pretending to let the frog go, Sherlock somehow manages to put it in Lestrade’s pocket for safekeeping without him realizing. It isn’t until the frog hops against his leg that he even notices it’s there, and then proceeds to release it back into the wild humanely without Sherlock seeing.

When they get back to town, they decide to go their own ways, Lestrade needing to rest, John needing some sort of lunch, and Sherlock needing whatever it is that Sherlock needed.

“We’ll meet back up tonight?” John suggests, rubbing his shoulder underneath the strap. Sherlock, seeing the gesture, makes a face of ‘I told you so’ and John pointedly ignores him.

“Name the place and time,” Lestrade responds, hands casually resting in his pockets.

“I was thinking I wanted to at least try the casino before we left,” John offers.

Sherlock shrugs as if he isn’t entirely opposed to the idea.

“Oh? Never pegged you as a gambling man.”

“I’m not really. But one night isn’t going to hurt. How about we get drinks first where it’s cheaper and then head over there later? So, let’s say, the pub, at eight?”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you then,” Lestrade concurs.

Before he leaves, though, he quickly catches Sherlock with a short kiss, right in front of John, completely catching them both off guard.

Sherlock blinks, “Did you just kiss me?”

“What? No. Of course not,” Lestrade replies with a lopsided grin and a wink.

As he turns to walk away, he notices a hint of a smile playing at the corners of Sherlock’s lips and feels triumphant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes there will be more! And more than just the random quick kiss between them.


End file.
